Lost Without My Blogger, One Shots
by starrysummernights
Summary: One-shots set in the "Lost Without My Blogger" universe. These are scenes taking place before John returns from the "dead," after he comes back, present day, and everything in-between. Mentions and depictions of torture. Johnlock.
1. I Binned Them All

**I promised quite a few people when I finished writing "I'd Be Lost Without My Blogger" that I would be writing some one-shots taking place in that universe. Well, months later, here we are! I thought about continuing to add onto the original "Blogger" but thought that could get annoying and there are some people who liked that story the way it was and don't want more added onto it. And I respect that. There are ideas, though, that keep coming to me that take place during the storyline, such as this chapter, or events that could happen in John and Sherlock's life and I feel compelled to write them. We'll be skipping around a bit in these chapters. Some will take place in present day, others during the storyline before John came back, still others in the time that John and Sherlock took a break from their romantic relationship- but I will always add a blurb onto the beginning letting you know where the chapter fits in with the original work.**

**Many of these chapters are from prompts people gave me, wanting to see a scene extended, have me write a scene, such as the one below, or felt that something was missing. Feel free to prompt me if you want to see something from the Blogger universe and I will do my best. Thanks!**

**It is important to read "I'd Be Lost Without My Blogger" before reading these one-shots. If you haven't read that story, you won't understand much of what takes place in these chapters. Sorry :)**

**I hope these are enjoyable to you all :) This chapter takes place 3 months after John "dies" and depicts Sherlock's removal of all John's things from the flat.**

* * *

"John, pass me my phone."

There was a breathless silence in the flat and Sherlock frowned in irritation, his head turning to see what was keeping John from retrieving his mobile- before he froze, eyes wide, realizing what he had just said. He sighed and closed his eyes in disbelief, pressing his lips together in annoyance.

John wasn't there.

John was _dead_.

Stupid, _stupid_! He _knew_ that. It had been three months now. He _knew_ John was dead.

Why, then, were there still mornings he would wake up (if and when he did sleep) and wonder if John had left for work yet and if he had time to make Sherlock tea- only for the knowledge that John was dead to come crashing over him, freezing the breath in his lungs? Why did he still sometimes glance over his shoulder at a crime scene, expecting to see John standing at the periphery, talking to Lestrade, only to remember, again? Why were there still times he was halfway through a text to his blogger, only to realize? Why was he still asking John to do things when he knew he was dead?

Sherlock inhaled slowly through his nose as the all-too-familiar atrociously painful feeling of loss rushed over him, as sharp and agonizing as if it were fresh, as if John had just died.

He sat up from his sprawl on the sofa where he had been trying to think through the latest semi-interesting case from Lestrade, and looked around the darkened flat. His eyes immediately went to John's things that were still scattered about, standing amongst his own belongings like beacons, catching his eye and forcing him to observe them. They looked natural, sprinkled about the flat, complementing his own messiness just as it had always been- as it would never be again. Each time he saw something of John's, his heart clenched for just a split second and he _remembered,_ again and again.

John's coat in the hall- heart skipped a beat, breath caught, and realization swiftly followed: _John's dead._

John's armchair, the middle caved-in where John had always sat, pecking away on his blog, a slight smile on his face over his own perceived cleverness- heart skipped, breath caught, _John's dead._

John's medical textbooks and various ridiculous mystery paperbacks Sherlock had always written in the margins of and solved before John could finish reading them, much to John's annoyance- heart skipped, breath caught, _John's dead._

John's mug in the kitchen, still sitting beside the stove, ready to be filled with tea- heart skipped, breath caught_, John's dead_. Dead, dead, dead.

Tears blurred Sherlock's vision but he resolutely closed his eyes and willed them away. He concentrated on forcing his emotions down, deep down where he couldn't feel them anymore, didn't have them constantly presenting themselves and making him react in this way. It wasn't as if feeling this way helped. It wouldn't bring John back- nothing he did could ever bring John Watson back from the dead.

_Nothing_. Stupid sentiment made him wish that there was something, but there were only echoes and memories. Nothing real, nothing substantial.

When Sherlock had control of himself again, he looked back at the flat, furious determination blazing in his eyes, making his chest tight and constricting his airways.

He leapt from the sofa and took seven angry strides into the kitchen. He snatched up John's mug- his favorite, the white one with the red and gold coat of arms emblazoned across it- and, without hesitation, smashed it to the floor. The sound of the porcelain breaking was loud in the too quiet flat but Sherlock didn't react, his body poised as if waiting for something to happen.

Nothing happened, nothing moved, and Sherlock slumped.

What had he been expecting? John to walk in, his face dark and angry, asking what the hell Sherlock had been thinking and demanding his mug be replaced? The very idea of John doing so almost made Sherlock's knees weak.

He was immediately filled with remorse that he had destroyed John's mug. Idiot. John would never know. He would never have to apologize to John for doing such a thing. No one cared if he binned the lot of John's effects.

The idea exploded into Sherlock's mind, beautiful, crisp, and terrible all at the same time, and he propelled himself forward.

Out came the black garbage bag, flung open with quick, jerky movements. Sherlock snatched up John's things with precision, separating them from his own possessions without error, knowing with his eyes closed what was his and what was John's. He bundled them all into the black garbage bag, not bothering to look at what he held and analyze and deduce and _remember_. He didn't _allow_ himself to remember.

He worked quickly, his breathing heavy and labored, going back again and again to the kitchen for more black garbage bags, refusing to acknowledge the perplexing panic in his gut that was telling him he was doing something that could never be undone, that was screaming at him to stop, stop, stop.

He wanted to do this before he changed his mind. Before he allowed disgusting sentiment to cloud his judgment and he kept everything, as he had done, wallowing in pointless sentiment, for the past three months.

For good measure, Sherlock hauled John's armchair down to the bins as well.

Then he started on John's bedroom. He hadn't been in this room since that day at the morgue but Mrs. Hudson had been up to clean once a week, as evidenced by the lack of dust on the surfaces and the neatly made bed. The rest of the room was untouched, still and silent, as if simply waiting for the inhabitant to come back. It was like a tomb, a shrine to John Watson and his military orderliness.

Sherlock didn't pause to look around or remember the many times he had ran up the stairs and burst through this very door to wake John from a sound sleep in order to take him along on a case. He didn't remember creeping slowly up the stairs after being roused from thinking by the sounds of John having a nightmare, how he would peek in on his flatmate and make sure he was ok.

He swept the miscellaneous junk off the top of the bedside table and into the garbage bag in one motion, not looking at what he was throwing away- ticket stubs, loose change, alarm clock, memories of John. He emptied all the drawers with efficiency, jerking them from their slots and tipping their contents into the garbage bag without looking. He threw them to the side, not bothering to replace them, knowing he was going to be clearing the room out tomorrow. What was the point in cleaning up?

Sherlock jerked the sheets and blankets from the bed and stuffed them into the bag as well, his mind firmly fixed on the idea of the lab he would build here.

He opened the closet door and his knees weakened. The outward movement of the door had propelled the stale air of the closet into his face, bringing with it the familiar scent of John to his nostrils. Shaving cream, soap, laundry detergent, medicinal smells from the surgery, and underneath all that…John. It was as potent as if the man were standing in the same room with him and Sherlock breathed in deeply, his resolve to feel nothing splintering into meaningless shards.

He tracked the scent, his garbage bag lying in the bedroom, forgotten, nose twitching like that of a bloodhound. He finally located the source of the deliciously potent John-smell and he unashamedly buried his face in the hideous red jumper.

Memories leapt through his mind in rapid succession and he opened his eyes and stared at the neat, orderly row of jumpers hanging in John's closet.

John grinned up at him, wearing that revolting Christmas jumper, offering him tea….They had worked on the murderous nanny case when John wore that one- the child had thrown up all over John at the end and when Sherlock had told him he shouldn't have given the spawn so much candy John had gotten angry…John rolling up the sleeves of his wheat colored one and scrubbing at the acid stain on the tabletop, shooting Sherlock angry glares over his shoulder…The green one's sleeves had always been too long and had fallen over John's hands until only the tips of his fingers had peeked out, for some reason making him look younger and unkempt…Sherlock had been unable to not notice how the blue jumper had made John's eyes sparkle and he always seemed to be in a particularly good mood when he wore that one…

But all the memories were nothing, really, to the _smell_ those jumpers contained. Sherlock inhaled deeply.

It was John, pure and simple John Hamish Watson.

_John was dead._

Sherlock jerked away from the offending articles of clothing, his lip twisting in disgust. Is that what it had come to- smelling his dead flatmate's jumpers? Disgustingly weak sentiment. He shook his head and snorted in disbelief, jerking the first jumper- the red one, a color that had been so unlike John to purchase, and had held some sort of erotic lure for Sherlock's imagination- and strode out of the closet.

He held the jumper over the garbage bag, willing himself to drop it and keep going…but he couldn't. For long minutes, Sherlock stood in John's bedroom, holding the red jumper…unable to let it go, his knuckles clenched white about the vivid fabric.

It made no sense for him to keep it. It was the wrong size- he wouldn't wear it even if it were the correct size- and he knew John would never come back to don it. Sherlock had always detested these jumpers. It served no purpose to keep them.

Why, then, couldn't he let it go?

Almost without thinking, Sherlock brought the jumper back up to his nose and inhaled, closing his eyes in rapture at the smell that assaulted his senses. He couldn't get rid of these. He just couldn't, not while they smelled like John. The smell would eventually fade, though, his rational mind protested- and suddenly his mind was off and running, thinking of the various ways he could preserve the smell of John Watson in these jumpers.

He tore them from their hangers and, his arms full of those dreadful articles of cloth John had deemed worthy enough to wear, raced down to his bedroom. Inside his closet were garment bags, the type that zipped and sealed nicely, protecting the fabric within from dust and wear. Sherlock threw his own clothes out of the bags, then carefully folded the jumpers, unable to resist pressing a few to his nose to breathe in the wonderful scent that clung to them, before carefully storing them in the bags.

He zipped them up and slid them into his closet. No one ever had to know.

* * *

_Present Day_

John looked at the plain white cardboard box in his hands and smiled up at Sherlock. "What's this?"

"Obvious."

"It's not my birthday- it's not _your_ birthday-"

"Why would I buy _you_ a present on _my_ birthday, John?"

"I've given up trying to understand you, Sherlock." John teased, giving Sherlock a playful grin before fumbling open the cardboard box, his healed fingers still somewhat stiff when the weather was bad, and extracted a familiar mug from amidst the tissue paper. He simply stared at it, running his fingers along the smooth, unblemished surface, tracing the coat of arms, turning it over to read the maker before finally grasping it by the handle and looking at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised.

"I thought you binned everything."

"I did. I bought this for you." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, his hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers. "It was always your favorite."

John, a slight smile on his face, stared at him with knowing eyes that stripped all pretense from Sherlock and left him feeling naked and exposed. Their eyes locked and for a brief moment everything they had been through, all the emotions, the ups and downs, lay between them.

Then John blinked and the moment was, thankfully for both, over.

He grinned and held out the mug. "Make me tea?"

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes but stepped forward nonetheless and took the mug from John.


	2. A Lengthy but Chaste Snog

**This one-shot takes place during the 5 months that John and Sherlock took a break from their romantic relationship and is a continuation of this paragraph from Chapter 23:**

** "After the incident with Moran, he and Sherlock had settled back into their old friendship and it was comfortable…to a certain extent. John accompanied Sherlock on cases and even if he got left behind a few times when Sherlock charged off after someone, he was still a part of the action, still essential to Sherlock's happiness. John, feeling useless and unnecessary after the first few times of being left behind, had suggested that maybe he was holding Sherlock back on cases and would it perhaps be better for Sherlock if John stayed at the flat? Sherlock had refused to speak to him for the rest of the day and only a lengthy, but strictly chaste, snog over the pillow wall that night had thawed Sherlock's anger."**

**So, here we are: a lengthy but chaste snog over the pillow wall. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

Sherlock cursed, biting his lips and looking furious as he whirled on the spot, his coat billowing around him, trying to deduce from what seemed like thin air which way the suspect had gone. His chest was heaving as he panted, his face thunderous as the seconds ticked by and he was still no closer to discovering the route. He ran an agitated hand through his hair, his other balling into a fist, before he jerked out his mobile and began texting, letting Lestrade know what had happened, warning him the witness was now in danger, the suspect was still at large.

John, leaning against a brick wall and stoically trying to pretend his ankle wasn't throbbing in pain from his pathetic attempt at running, winced and looked away. Guilt was clawing at his gut and he wished he'd stayed at the flat that morning. He had known this would happen if he came out with Sherlock on cases…but he'd been selfish enough to go out anyway, thinking he'd maybe be useful in some way.

John snorted and shook his head. Yeah, _real_ useful, Watson.

Sherlock, his face a dark, was still texting and not noticing John, which was just as well. John didn't think he could take having that rage justly directed at him over his failure- or even worse, Sherlock's pity.

"_It's cute, the way you'd run after him. Like a faithful pet. Looks like doggie's not useful anymore. Better put it down."_

John closed his eyes and breathed deeply, refusing to let himself get sucked back to that time, refusing to let his pain be the catalyst for a relapse. He'd been doing so well lately and he fucking _refused_ to go back. He concentrated on his breathing, whooshing each exhale out through his mouth, then sucking air through his nose, allowing the repetitive motions to quell the jittery panic that was creeping on the edges of his consciousness.

"Are you all right?"

Sherlock's voice jerked John away from his morbid thoughts and he gasped, looking over at Sherlock who stood a few feet away, face still angry, eyes flashing, but now showing concern for John. Concern John felt he didn't deserve.

John nodded and pushed away from the wall, stifling his pained grimace as he put weight on his ankle. Sherlock was staring at him, easily deducing his pain and fatigue, but made no move to help him, for which John was grateful. He already felt miserable enough.

It was _his_ fault the criminal had gotten away. He couldn't run like he used to- a quick limp-hop-walk was all he was mostly capable of and when he pushed himself the pain was almost excruciating. John knew Sherlock had known that….but this wasn't Sherlock's fault, John reminded himself. He was just doing his job.

It was _John_ who was the problem in this situation.

"Did you tell Lestrade?" he asked, pleased when he voice came out steady and strong.

Sherlock grunted and started slowly walking away from him, back to the main road. John followed behind, his cane striking the pavement and echoing off the buildings, and watched as Sherlock hailed a cab, his movements' jerky in frustration at his failure.

* * *

The cab ride back to the flat was silent and tense, John mulling over what he would say to Sherlock when they got back, his gut twisting in shame and sadness. Sherlock's eyes were distant and glazed, a million miles away as he plotted what the criminal's next move would be. John thought he was no doubt hoping he stayed behind so he could catch the criminal this time without worrying about distractions.

Sherlock bounded up the stairs to the flat, leaving John to make his own way up, which was as he wanted. He was glad Sherlock understood this about him and didn't attempt to _mother_ him.

When John finally made it into the flat, Sherlock was already sitting in his armchair, eyes closed and hands beneath his chin as if in prayer, deductions and theories churning away inside his mind. John took a deep breath and decided to just plunge into this. He didn't think he could keep silent about it for much longer. It already felt like it was eating it's way out of his chest.

"Sherlock…I think it'd be best if I don't go out on cases with you anymore."

"What?" Sherlock jerked out of his thoughts, disoriented, and stared over at his friend who had lowered himself into his armchair with a grimace. He'd pushed himself too hard trying to run, Sherlock thought, and mentally berated himself for allowing John to run in the first place. He should have told him to stay where he was. It wasn't good to put more stress on his ankle when it was only just healed. They didn't want to damage it further.

"I think…from now on…I'd best not go out on cases with you." John said slowly, his eyes fixed on his cane, not wanting to see the relief on Sherlock's face that he would no longer have John weighing him down. Unbidden, thoughts of Sherlock flying across rooftops, laughing, John jumping after him, exhilarating adrenaline pounding through his body at the sensation, the danger, the risk of it all, came to mind. Images of John himself leaping, tackling, running, aiming his gun, nerves steady, seeing Sherlock's pride at having John with him, knowing he could rely on John for anything.

That was all gone now.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, looking puzzled, and John sighed, wishing he'd just accept it and not make him spell it out.

"I'm only slowing you down." John admitted in a low voice, glancing up at Sherlock who now staring at him in surprise, his eyes wide.

"Have I made you feel that way?"

"No! _No_, of course not, no, but-"

"Then why would you say such a stupid, _ridiculous_ thing, John?" Sherlock asked scornfully, his eyebrows drawn together in anger. John sighed and looked away, running a finger over the head of his cane. The silence stretched between them, thick with unresolved tension while Sherlock waited- no, _demanded_ an answer to his question. John decided to be blunt.

"I'm not the way I was _before_, Sherlock. That guy got away today because you were waiting on me to catch up…and I don't think I'll be doing much catching up to you…ever again."

There was ringing silence and John risked a glance at Sherlock, whose jaw was clenched tightly and he wasn't looking at John.

"I'm-"

"Don't you dare say you are sorry, John." His voice whipped out, hot with anger, and with enough venom to sting, though John didn't really think it was directed at him.

He frowned and looked away. "It's the truth, Sherlock. We both know it-"

"I thought I've made it perfectly clear that I want you with me on cases."

"You did but-"

"Then why would you think I would suddenly not want you?"

"Because I'm crippled!" John burst out, tired of dancing around the subject, tired of the looks and insinuations and the unwanted-but-sometimes-hatefully-needed help. He was tired of not being the way he used to be, tired of pretending that he could have the same life with Sherlock that he'd had before when they both knew he couldn't.

Sherlock's face was suddenly wiped of all emotion. "Don't…ever…say…that…again. You are not crippled."

John snorted. "Then what am I, Sherlock? _This_ limp isn't something you can cure with danger and adrenaline. It's here to stay. It's permanent. And it means I can't be haring off after you anymore. I'm useless now."

"You're not useless." Sherlock said, rising from his chair, still careful not to loom over John. "You're _mine_, and you're coming on cases."

* * *

John was surprised to find Sherlock already in their bed that night when he limped into the room. After their argument that morning, Sherlock had refused to speak to him, turning away when John asked a question, refusing to acknowledge his presence in the flat, and even going so far as to go upstairs and "experiment" in his lab. John, dejected, had puttered around the flat and watched telly, knowing he'd been right in what he'd said to Sherlock. He wasn't the same as he used to be…and he _was_ useless. He hadn't meant to insult Sherlock, though, and it seemed that was the way Sherlock had taken his words.

As John slid into bed, the pillow wall already constructed, Sherlock's arms were crossed petulantly over his chest and his eyes stared stubbornly at the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge John's presence. John knew he was aware but it seemed Sherlock was still angry…

John laid on his back and stared at the ceiling as well, biting his lip and thinking for long minutes about what he should do.

Finally, he raised up and leaned over the pillow wall. Sherlock resolutely stared past him, still studying the ceiling, his expression unreadable. John smiled ruefully and brushed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek before leaning down and gliding his lips over Sherlock's.

"I'm sorry." He whispered against Sherlock's cupid's bow and it was a second before Sherlock's lips relaxed and parted beneath John's. Sherlock tilted his head to the side on the pillow and allowed John to deepen the kiss, closing his eyes, his entire posture relaxing beneath the touch. It had been weeks since they'd kissed, ever since John had declared he needed some time, and Sherlock had respected that, allowed John the distance he needed…but he had _ached_ to feel John kiss him again.

Sherlock kept his passion and arousal tightly in check, not pressing towards John or even reaching for him, and allowed John to direct the kiss, how fast it was, how deep, what he did with his lips, every little nuance. Sherlock wanted it to last forever and he carefully branded the way John's lips felt into his memory, knowing he'd need it and the peace it brought him until John said he was ready to try again. It was exquisitely torturous to kiss John and not be able to toss the pillows to the side and have John press himself against him. Sherlock, feeling his control slipping, reigned it in and directed his thoughts elsewhere.

John was kissing him, his lips moving chastely over his own, and Sherlock realized he was giving him reassurance, comfort, a silent apology- when he knew _he_ should be the one apologizing, explaining to John. He should have done earlier today but he'd been too angry. Now, as John pulled away and began kissing his way across Sherlock's cheek, he spoke.

"You're _mine_." Sherlock whispered. "You don't slow me down, John." John's lips paused only briefly before moving down to his chin and kissing there. "You…energize me, inspire me, give me a purpose." Sherlock swallowed and when he next spoke, his words were choked, full of emotion.

"When you were gone…I still solved cases but…there was no joy in it. Not like before, not like with you. Before you, I thought I was happy with The Work, that it was all I needed. Then…you. And after you were gone it wasn't enough anymore."

John remembered thinking Sherlock had been blithely solving cases while he was missing, when in actual fact Sherlock had thought he was dead and had been moving on with his life, as was expected. John had felt betrayed, hurt, and wounded by the idea of Sherlock going off without him, seemingly unconcerned. Now, he felt that old hurt soothed, and he thought it was probably shallow to think that way, but knowing Sherlock had missed him, needed him, found him essential…it helped.

"I want you with me…always." Sherlock confessed and John pulled away so he could look down at him. "I never want you to feel any other way."

John smiled and smoothed the hair back from Sherlock's forehead, watching as Sherlock closed his eyes in bliss at the contact. It made John's heart clench to know how much love this man had for him, how much he was dedicated to him. He felt humbled and undeserving…and selfish enough to grasp it with both hands and not let go.

"I love you." John whispered before he kissed Sherlock again. He kept the kiss chaste, not wanting to tease either one of them and be cruel, excite a passion that wouldn't be resolved…but he had to kiss Sherlock, had to reaffirm what the two of them shared. Sherlock was more than happy to oblige for as long as John wanted to kiss him.

When John finally pulled away, kissing Sherlock one last time before telling him goodnight, Sherlock reached up and cupped his cheek.

"I love you as well, John."

* * *

A few hours later, when Sherlock received a tip from his homeless network and woke John prematurely in order to go back out hunting the criminal, John moaned only minimally before grabbing his cane and haring after Sherlock, excited to be on the hunt- together.


	3. You're Pathetic

**This scene takes place during John's captivity with Moriarty, a few months after he has been captured. He has not yet been rescued and is still a few months away from that day.**

**PLEASE NOTE: There are depictions of torture in this chapter, though nothing very graphic. I felt I should warn those of you that are squeamish about that sort of thing.**

**Thanks for reading.**

* * *

"You're pathetic."

John winced when he heard the cold, lilting voice speak above his head. He pressed his forehead against the gritty concrete, willing himself to stand but feeling too weak and shaky to manage it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, the last time he'd slept. Every drag of his eyelids over his tired, gritty eyes only served to remind him that he was exhausted- emotionally, physically, mentally. This was the only time _he_ came to him, when he knew John was at his most vulnerable. Even though John _knew_ this, it didn't help when Moriarty started talking.

"Crawling around on the ground like an insect." There was a derisive scoffing sound. "What would Sherlock say to see you now?"

Thinking about Sherlock- and what he _would_ say- made John resolved and he braced his hands against the ground, muffing a cry of pain as he placed weight on his broken fingers, and tried to push himself up. His arms harshly shook beneath him. His body was one writhing mass of _agony_. His ribs ached, his head ached, his knees and legs and fingers and arms and torso and groin and back _ached_. Never before had he so fervently wished to pass out as he did right now and he _couldn't_. His body was betraying him, wouldn't allow it, and it was horrendous.

The steady drip, drip, drip of blood from his nose and various cuts was loud in the silence of the room he'd been in for…God, he didn't know now. Forever, it felt like. But it couldn't have been that long. There was no way he'd been here for months, no matter what Moriarty said. John heard his breathing speed up as panic tried to claw it's way out of his chest, making his heart beat race, trying to wrest away control of himself and give over to the scorching fear that was always present.

"Oh! Do you not like me talking about your friend? Well, I suppose you know he's not your friend _now_. A _friend_ wouldn't leave you here to rot. And make no mistake- he knows you're here, John. And he doesn't _care_."

"That's not true." John whispered raggedly, unable to stay silent even though he knew it was the wrong thing to do and would just draw more attention to himself. Moriarty laughed, the sound skittering along John's frayed nerves and making him shudder.

"It's almost _cute_ how you thought you mattered to him. How you thought you mattered to…well, anyone really." This sentence was punctuated with a volley of kicks, aimed at his stomach and groin, throwing off John's precarious balance and sending him staggering on hands and knees to his side, finally collapsing in a heap as he curled in on himself and tried to protect himself as the kicks continued, ruthlessly. One connected with his head and for one glorious moment John thought he would pass out- but the more he blinked, the more his spotty vision cleared and he almost sobbed that he was still awake.

_Please, God, just let me black out. Just let me black out. That's what he wants. That's all he wants. That's what this is about. Please please please please please let me pass out. Oh, God, please._

The kicks suddenly stopped and in their absence, John could only try to force himself to keep breathing around the pain, unable to stop the pained moans from forcing their way past his lips.

"You know he'd laugh at you with me. You were amusing to him for a time, but not forever. Even _you_ were smart enough to know that." Moriarty stooped down and brought himself eye level with John. John winced as he looked into those cold, calculating eyes, unable to stop himself. "Did you fantasize that he would be with you forever? That you could hold that massive intellect, that incredible focus, solely on yourself? Did you think you were _special_, _Jawn_?"

John almost retched to hear the way Moriarty said his name, imitating Sherlock's accent almost perfectly, and the other man knew it, could read the revulsion in his face and body language and smiled, a happy, content smile that sat at odds with where they were and what was taking place.

"Poor pet." Moriarty caressed his cheek and John wrenched his head away, even though the motion made him dizzy. He didn't know what he would do if Moriarty tried to do…any of that. It was the one thing Moriarty hadn't done, hadn't threatened him with and John was afraid his mind wouldn't take it. _Couldn't_ take it. Moriarty seemed to have read his thoughts because his lips twisted in a humorless smile.

"I never dabble with the pets, John. That's just _disgusting_." He chided, slapping John's cheek so his head snapped to the side and he cried out before he could stop himself. His stomach finally rebelled and John fell to the side, gagging, but there wasn't anything in his stomach to make an appearance. Moriarty tsked and stood, smoothing down his elegant suit and brushing lint from the sleeves.

"I'd best be off. I've my own games to play with Sherlock- oh! I haven't told you, have I? We've been in _touch_." He licked his lips and stared down at the shivering man at his feet. "You know he always preferred me. How could he not?"

John, summoning his strength, forced himself to look up into those pitiless eyes and saw Moriarty smirk.

"Don't worry, darling. I'll be back."


End file.
